The Smell
by create2inspire
Summary: A blindfold, a prison cell. A martyr, trapped in a Hell worse than anything Hades can imagine. What can make him wish for death? What can make him give up everything...just to get out of that room?


**The Smell**

It smelled of desolation, despair, damnation. It smelled of an eternity spent in Hell, of a lifetime of torture and illness, of centuries of decay and death. The smell was red and sticky; it clung to the blood slickened walls, fled through the crusted, metal cage, devoured the flesh of the prisoners, chewed on their hair and spat in their wounds. All around, people choked on it, inhaled it against their will, washed their hands with it, ate it, spat it out. The smell of blood, of murder, of insanity. Omnipresent, pervasive, torturously pungent…inescapable. This was his life now. This was his home; this was the stench that would be his constant companion from here to the end. His end, his execution.

The rough-handed guards at his back prodded him painfully, closer and closer to his pen. New sounds accompanied every blind step: the buzz of a million frenzied flies, the nuzzle of some kind of animal grinding his teeth on a hunk of meat, the rip of muscles tearing, the squish of blood being spilled, the snap of a bone. His breath hitched and his palms grew slick. The air was grotesquely humid, horridly muggy, as though the walls themselves were sweating in the scorching heat. With each inhale, his nose was filled with the smell of heat, the smell of things he could not see. His blindfold masked the images, blurred the lines, created a perpetual darkness. There was only the rough, wet cobble stone beneath his bare, cracked feet, and the smell burning his nose.

Finally, the bars of his prison were close enough to touch. One of his guards jingled his keys, unlocking the grate while the other untied his blindfold and unclipped the shackles on his arms. He felt immediately the loss of the covering; his eyes burned, the smell instantaneously invading their soft tissue. He blinked furiously to rid himself of the sensation and each time his eyes reopened, they revealed some new horror, some fresh Hell in which he was being forced to abide. How was he to survive this? The smell taunted him: the smell of fear, the smell of hopelessness.

Still shackled heavily at the ankles, he was thrown forcibly into the over-large room filled over its capacity with mangled, emaciated, bloodied bodies. He was chained to the wall in the corner, a space on the outskirts of the crowd. His bare feet sloshed in a puddle of dense gore, strewn with flecks of flesh and milky saliva, dirt and tufts of stringy hair. He quickly looked away, swallowing the lump of bile rising in his throat.

The horrors continued in every corner of the cell. Piles of fly-infested feces, pieces of old meals strewn around with rats the size of my forearm chomping away at them, living corpses leaning against walls, screaming for aid, fighting for a scrap of food, sleeping in their own filth. Everywhere he looked, dead faces stared at rusted bars and bloodied walls and grimy floors. The stink clung to them: the smell of death, of revulsion, of resignation, of hunger, of sadness and hatred.

The fight in the back of the room came to a close, and a new smell wafted through the air: the stench of victory. Two men had fought for a piece of bread; one man had no life left to fight with, and the other man stood over him with a look of ravenous triumph. He bent to the man's carcass and pressed his head to his heart. His face melted into a mask of animal desire, and without another word, he plunged his teeth into the muscle of the corpse's upper arm. Again and again he ripped and chewed and swallowed, his eyes clouding and blackening until they resemble the beady, hollow orbs of an insatiable wolf. The others in the room, finally detecting the dead man, rose and clawed their way towards the body, each one tearing and nuzzling and fighting for their share. From his corner of the room, he could hear the pop of marrow, the tug of tendons, the breaking of veins, the squish and slide of blood and flesh being chewed and swallowed and torn. He heard the shouting of the inmates, clawing and biting and struggling for "Just one more bite! Just one more!"

His stomach churned and the bile rose again, this time irrepressibly. He gagged, choking as it all spewed out at once, coating the floor in a new layer of grunge. All he could smell was the already-rotting carcass, the overwhelming smell of blood and desperation. The smell of revulsion, the stench of evil; he could not escape it. How was he to survive this? How could he live with this smell, these people…these monsters?

His eyes closed and he pounded his head against the slick wall behind him. Harder, again. Over and over he struck his skull against the stones. Just as he was beginning to drift into unconsciousness, the voice of an inmate called, "We've got another one boys!"

"No, no!" he cried weakly, just as his sight disappeared and the world went blank, only the smell of panic to accompany him.

He awoke, which was surprise enough. He looked himself over, piece by piece; assessing the damage he'd been done. There was nothing; just a few bite marks and the ever-present ache of his ankles, wrapped tightly in the rusted steel bonds. He had been spared, and for that he would be grateful. The smell of relief was pungent in his corner, mixing in the air as though it wasn't sure why it was there.

The inmates lounged around as they had been the first moment he'd been here, each seeming to sigh happily after their hearty meal. He glanced over at the man's marred, ghastly form, and was nearly overcome by the lump of bile again. There was nothing left to speak of; his bone had been picked clean, and it was evident that even the blood had been licked from the cobblestone. All that remained was his smell: the smell of a grotesque funeral, the smell of the time that had been taken from him, the stench of his body being stolen from the graveyard, never being allowed to rot or decay.

He straightened in his corner, leaned his head against the bars and prayed that soon, soon, his executioner would come to take him from this agony.

A week: a week of anguish, grief. A week of that awful smell, ever shifting, always there, never leaving. Men died; they were eaten. The guards brought bread, hard and small and crusted and burnt. In his corner, he ate furiously. His stomach still flattened; his back became weak and his hair grew. His beard was as dirty as the floor by the time the bars finally opened and he was called.

He thought, _finally._ There would be no more cannibalistic nightmares, no more dry heaves or rising bile. He would not have to remember the stench of hostility or the pungent odor of emaciation much longer. Soon he would be able to forget, he would learn the smell of the afterlife.

His steps became surer and surer as he continued enthusiastically towards the chopping block. He passed through the smell of the guardhouse, the smell of the wooden door. He was welcomed by the sweet smell of fresh air, then wakened by the smell of sunlight and grass so soft he could almost imagine it was silk.

His feet brushed the splintering wood of the platform, and his knees bent willingly in front of the block. His neck stretched eagerly over the stone, his nose sucking in the smells of fascination, ruthlessness, and hatred he felt from the executioner and the audience. He smiled. _Soon._ He would be free soon.

The sharpening of a blade, the pinch of the stone beneath his neck, and he was finally ready to die. He was ready. He was prepared.

The blade lifted and broke through the air. His mouth curved wider and wider until finally, he learned the smell of nothing


End file.
